She sits by the black stream, sipping water
from cupped hands, here in a land without
sky, copper glow radiating from earth’s
baking heart. How calm she feels, wanting

nothing but wetness on her lips. A rustling
in the cypresses, only the shadow of wind.
Even motion makes her glad in this new body,
almost weightless, a subtle film of something

not quite flesh, a memory of pomegranates,
grapes and pears. How good to wait here
on this grass which is not grass, feeling warmth
from some other sun, empty of all longing

and all dreams, companionable though all
alone among these kind and terrible shades.